


i figured it out from black and white

by wiselyandslow



Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, basically a becky character study, i'm such a sucker for becky and the rigginses dynamic, the twins make a cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25231018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiselyandslow/pseuds/wiselyandslow
Summary: “Yeah. I figure I could maybe camp out here for a little. Help out with the babies. Until, I don’t know. Until I figure it out, I guess.” The phrase makes her cringe as it comes out of her mouth.“Can I tell you somethin?”Becky looks up.“You never figure it out,” Tim says, taking another sip. “Figuring it out is… overrated.”orBecky comes home from college with a quarter-life crisis and the full intention of leaving Dillon as soon as possible. Running into Luke again feels like a hitch in that plan, but also kind of like destiny.
Relationships: Luke Cafferty/Becky Sproles
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	i figured it out from black and white

Against her better judgment and, really, the leanings of every fiber of her being, Becky is back in Dillon. She didn’t mean to wind up back here, didn’t mean to ever really step foot here again, but as she scuffs her pristine white Converse on the Rigginses’ doorstep (her Durangos, likely brittle and drenched in dust, long since dormant in a box in her old closet) she finally believes it—that there must be some kind of toxin in the air possessing the residents of this place, trapping them, that Dillon really is like a whirlpool: forceful and inescapable and inevitable. What else could explain that she couldn’t resist flying back here, pink suitcase and self-pity in tow, to the place where she very nearly ruined her life? 

She reminds herself that it’s _Stevie_ , of course, and that if there was one reason she always conceded to herself, in her mind, those vacant moments when her thoughts would drift to Texas, it was to see him and Mindy and Billy and Tim again. And it was almost worth it when she’d knocked on that familiar brown door again, just hours ago, and was met with the very blond, very rambunctious toddler—not a toddler, she realized quickly, but a kid. The kid whose diapers she used to change and whose hair she used to comb with her fingers.

She hadn’t told Mindy she was coming, so the look of pure joy on her face as she came around from the kitchen, probably to scold Stevie for opening the door himself, baby #4 in her arms, and little Timmy latched onto her leg, it felt… Well, it felt like coming _home_.

So that might be it. It definitely wasn’t a desire to see her mother again. Her mother didn’t really take the moving-halfway-across-the-country to attend a large public university thing well. Becky was on her own those four years, working two jobs on top of a full course load, but she supposes it probably would’ve ended up that way no matter where she went, California or Texas. Her mother didn’t even graduate high school. Becky doubted the word college was ever on her radar. At least she was able derive some vindication from the surprise in her mother’s voice when she had told her all the places she’d gotten into. It was a way to say, _ha_. _Even with an absent mom and nonexistent dad. Look what I’ve done._

She’d straightened up senior year, got the grades. Went to college. Had the time of her life. Made some friends that weren’t deadbeats or bigots or alpha bitches. Graduated. But as she sits here, Texas summer air sweltering around her like a vise, she wonders what she is going to do next. 

So there. She admits it to herself, although it’s embarrassing. She’s twenty-one, unemployed, and lost. And nothing in those textbooks taught her what she’s supposed to do now, so she is in Dillon, Texas, sitting on the Rigginses’ doorstep because there was nowhere else she knew to go while attempting to figure this out. 

“Hey, babygirl,” Mindy says, interrupting her thoughts, as she, Billy, and Stevie tumble out the front door. Stevie is currently swathed in massive shoulder pads that are threatening to topple him over and a blue jersey that reads _6_. He grasps, with both tiny arms, a helmet that is much too big for him. “We’re taking Stevie to practice. Can you watch the lil rascals till Tim gets in?” 

Practice? How old is Stevie again? _Five_? Five year olds are allowed to play football? Becky figures it’s a Dillon thing. 

“Yeah, sure thing.” 

Becky gets up, ruffles Stevie’s hair, and heads inside. Lucky for her the twins are glued to the TV watching some kiddie cartoon and little Laurel seems to not have inherited the Collette fire because she is stoic and tranquil, gripping a purple rattle in her crib. She has a calm spirit that reminds Becky of her uncle, and Becky watches her for what feels like a long while until the door squeaks open. She turns. Speak of the devil.

She is on Tim in a second, and she feels him dropping something to the floor in surprise, but then he’s whispering _Becks, you’re here_ and everything is okay. 

She pulls away to look at him, and it’s the same Tim, the same deep eyes, the same knowing smirk. He looks younger, almost, since the last time she saw him, which was too long ago. 

Timmy and Erica are just as excited as Becky, it seems, because they ambush their uncle the second they see him, balance amateur at best, stumbling over to make grabby hands at him. Tim picks them up, one in each arm, looking soft in a way Becky never imagined the loner in their old trailer could ever be. 

“Someone missed me, huh?” he says, turning from one twin to the other. 

_Yes_ , Becky thinks, smiling. _Someone did_. 

They sit on the couch while Tim drinks a beer and Becky drinks a Sprite. He tells her about his house and that she needs to come see it again because he’s building a barn, and he might get a horse. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t ask why Becky is here. He simply acts like it only makes sense that she’s here, and she loves him for it. 

“So you’re a college graduate.” 

“Yup. Got that on you, Tim Riggins,” she replies, feeling cheeky. 

“You were always better than me, Becks,” he says, smiling, as if he’s joking. But she knows he means it. 

“Not true.” 

“French, right?” he asks. 

“Yup.” She’s still Becky Sproles, after all. She still likes to dream of the sprawling world beyond, or whatever it is she read in those paperback romances she’d picked up at the Whole Foods she’d worked at. So she’d majored in French. And now she can go to Paris, she supposes, and walk around in a silk scarf as if she were a local. But that’s part of the dilemma, isn’t it? She’s not exactly in _la Republique_ at the moment. 

Tim nods, as if he didn’t expect any other answer. 

“Yeah, and I guess that’s part of my problem,” she says. 

“Problem?” _Oh, Tim_. He doesn’t know what a problem is. To him there are no problems, there’s just life. 

“I’m kind of jobless right now? I thought I would know… After four years, what I wanted to do. But I guess I don’t.” 

“So you came to Dillon to figure it out.” He takes a sip of his beer. 

Becky smacks him across the chest. He snickers. 

“I’m sure Mindy’s happy,” he offers, as a consolation. 

“Yeah. I figure I could maybe camp out here for a little. Help out with the babies. Until, I don’t know. Until I _figure it out_ , I guess.” The phrase makes her cringe as it comes out of her mouth. 

“Can I tell you somethin?”

Becky looks up. 

“You never figure it out,” Tim says, taking another sip. “Figuring it out is… overrated.”

It happens at the gas station, because the universe has a great sense of humor. She’s picking up some milk for the house later that night. 

She’s walking out into the parking lot, sun almost down, but the air still stifling and full. 

She sees the uniform first. Even to this day, five years since she last kissed him, the sight of gray-green fatigues and stiff boots makes her heart drop like it’s some kind of reflex. Every time she’d see someone wearing them she’d think for a second.

_Could it be?_

She’d remember his ring, this thing that she kept in her wallet even after the letters stopped coming. Even after they both agreed without exchanging words that maybe it was best to step away. 

And then she’d always scold herself. Laugh under her breath. 

_Of course not_. 

Except this time, it is. The man filling up his truck looks up, and Becky drops the carton onto the hard concrete. Because it _definitely_ is. 

It’s him, but he’s different. Honey-blond hair buzzed; sharp, scruffy jaw; he’s even filled out a little more. He’s a man. _And what a man_. 

She picks up the carton without taking her eyes off of him, and because she’s always been a brave one, she walks, and walks, and keeps walking, until they are just a foot apart. 

“Hey, you,” he says, and is Becky dreaming or did his voice get deeper? 

“Hey yourself.” 

And it’s like all the years, the miles, the pain between them falls away. And Becky is seventeen again, holding the star running-back’s hand in the hallway and going on ten-o-clock drives in this very truck, doing _other things_ in this very truck. Going on dates to the movies but being unable to recall a single plot point or character’s name because she was too busy giggling at the stupid comments he’d whisper in her ear. Knowing what it’s like, finally, to adore someone and be adored back. 

“You got anywhere to be?” he asks. Becky cannot imagine that there is anywhere else but here, in his orbit, at this gas station in Texas where she first met the second boy she ever fell in love with. 

“Nowhere,” she replies. “Nowhere at all.” 

“Been over at Camp Bullis for the past couple weeks. Few miles northwest of San Antonio. It’s kinda nice, I’m close enough that I get to come home a lot. Visit the farm.” She watches the shadows of the trees and buildings as they dance across his face. 

“Is that where you were headed? You know, before I showed up and messed up your plan?” 

Luke smiles, radiant and dashing. 

“Mess up my plans,” he says. “That’s what you do, huh? Maybe I want my plans to be messed up.” 

They turn onto Westinghouse Street, a long road surrounded by dirt that Becky used to gun down on bad nights. She knows where they’re going now. The field comes into view, vast and unruly with tall grass. Now that it’s fully night, it’s all indigo and navy and subdued gold. Becky remembers dozens of nights spent here toward the end of his senior year, watching the stars and talking about nothing. Nothing and everything. 

He parks out in the middle. She heads to the truck bed without him even saying anything, and he follows suit, having removed his jacket to reveal a white undershirt. He takes a seat next to her and she notices the carefully placed distance between them. 

She suspects, with a sinking stomach, that maybe not everything has fallen away. That there are five years between them after all. Five years and the decision to stop trying. Did they really ever make that decision? Or was it something that just happened to them? 

Luke’s head is tilted up as he looks at the sky. He doesn’t say anything.

“Do you ever get sick of it?” Becky asks him. 

He looks down at his lap, as if to think. But he doesn’t think for long. 

“No.” 

“Do you think you made the right decision?” _Would you have made it if you knew it meant losing me?_

“I think I needed it,” he explains. 

“But you didn’t know if it was right? Only now you know?” She doesn’t care if she sounds desperate or lost or like some dumb girl. She never cared with Luke. 

“I guess I didn’t know.” He’s still looking up. “When I realized football wasn’t going to do anything for me, I was pretty crushed. You know that. And college, I knew that definitely didn’t feel right. So I figured, the army. That’s what people do when they don’t know what to do. And it’s screwed up but it’s the truth. Not something noble. Or brave. I just didn’t want to be useless. And when I’m there I’m not useless.”

“I never thought you were useless.” 

“I know,” he says. 

It’s quiet for a while. Becky hears crickets and the leaves brushing together as a wind sweeps through them. 

“What’s California like?” he asks, then places his hands behind his head and slowly leans backward till he’s laying down. She copies him. 

“It’s fun. My campus was right by the ocean,” she says, noticing her voice going all dreamy the way it does when she talks about Santa Barbara to anyone who’s never been. “The water is so blue, Luke. Like, you wouldn’t believe it.” _But,_ she thinks idly and a bit tritely, _it pales_ _in comparison to your eyes_. “I joined a sorority. I even did some modeling stuff in LA.”

“LA?” Luke says, eyes blown wide like a little kid. “Is it like the movies?” 

God damn, he’s cute. It’s no wonder at all that high school Becky was head over heels for him. “No, but it’s still pretty damn amazing.” 

“Were you ever… with someone?” She turns to him, sees that he’s looking away, sheepishly. It’s not like Luke to be so shy. He’d always been so bold about the way he felt about her. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she teases. He’s smiling to himself, boyishly. “If you’re asking if I dated anyone, yes, I went on a couple dates. But nothing past that, really. Nothing serious.” No _one_ serious _._ Becky thinks that maybe she was only ever serious about one person. 

“So you’re back here for the summer then?”

“Yeah, seems that way. It wasn’t the plan. I should be in California right now. But I graduated, and my roommates either got married or went away for their jobs, and housing prices in Santa Barbara are insane. And I don’t know what I’m doing. So here I am.” 

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” he says, leaning up on his elbow, and finally looking at her. Looking through her.

Luke’s gaze has always felt like getting hit by one of those semi-trucks her dad drives. It’s something to behold, the power he has over her. Even now. 

In a moment of pure wonder, the words tumble out of her mouth: “Me too.” 

They sneak into his parents’ house just down the road, tip toe up the stairs like teenagers. It’s all kinds of wrong, the way he’s still technically wearing his pristine army uniform, the fact that his parents are in the house somewhere, fast asleep, the way that she’s a full grown woman now but this still thrills her more than any frat party game she ever played. 

His bedroom looks the same—bright red Lions tapestry on the wall, Cowboys posters, his Peewee trophies. Deodorant and a yearbook on his dresser. 

And then he’s pressing her into the slightly rough sheets, with so much gentleness you’d think he thought she was made of glass. 

Becky kisses Luke Cafferty for the first time in five years. And it feels so good, and it feels so right, and he’s taking off his shirt, and she’s taking off hers, and then she’s whispering into his mouth, _it’s only temporary. I can’t stay. I can’t stay. I don’t belong here._ And she begins to cry. He pulls away, softly, big hands on her face, searches her face for something, she doesn’t know what. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers. And he kisses her until it is okay, until she actually starts to believe it. 

The light is barely there when Becky wakes to the rustling of sheets. His room is bathed in the pale blue of the morning, and she watches through tired, heavy lids as Luke crawls out of bed and puts on his uniform. The mirage, whatever fantasy they had lived the night before, is broken. He glances at her, and she sees his face change. His lips are downturned and mature. It is the face of a man who went away at eighteen and learned to grow up fast. Who’s been more places than Becky, but they’re places he didn’t choose. 

He leans down, kisses her face as he buttons up his jacket. 

“What time is it?” She mumbles, sitting up, and bringing the sheets with her to hide her nakedness. 

“5:30,” he says, quietly, and hands over her shirt. “I’ll drop you off at the Riggins’.” 

She dresses quickly, and they slip out of the house with no event. The drive is quiet but perfect. There’s no one on the road, and the sky’s just beginning to lighten. She looks out the open window, feels the cool air against her face. Becky thinks that she doesn’t mind Dillon like this. 

She looks over at Luke, whose eyes are trained on the road. There’s this French phrase that comes to her all of a sudden. _Je t'ai dans la peau_. I’ve got you under my skin. 

And she knows then. There is no taking back the things Luke said to her (things like _I want to be with you forever and ever_ ), or the things she said to him (things like _sure_ , when he asked if she could ever imagine living on a farm). There is no taking back what they have, what they are to each other, if the pure electricity coursing through her veins the day before was any indication. 

Becky knows these things. 

But she doesn’t know what they mean. And that terrifies her. 

She is woken up for the second time that morning when Mindy throws open the guest bedroom door. 

“Child, where have you been!” 

Becky rolls over so she’s not facing Mindy’s domineering figure in the doorway.

“Hey, answer me! I thought you’d gone and got yourself killed by an axe murderer!”

“Mindy, I’m twenty-one,” she mutters, covering her eyes with an arm. 

“You never brought home the milk.”

Oh shit. Becky whips up, eyes open. She’d forgotten all about the milk. It’s probably all warm and spoiled in the backseat of Luke’s truck. 

“Oh my god, I am so sorry. I ran into someone.” 

Mindy raises her eyebrows. But she doesn’t ask. Thank God. “Come out for breakfast,” she says. 

Mindy shuts the door behind her. Becky laughs like a lunatic into her pillow. 

“You got a message,” Billy informs her later that day. “Think you might wanna hear it.” 

She picks up the phone, Laurel on her hip, and presses 1. 

“Heya, coach. How ya doin? It’s, uh, it’s Luke? Cafferty? Yeah, anyways. Hope everything’s good with you and Mrs. R. I heard about the baby. Congrats. Anyways, I actually needed to talk to Becky. You can tell her to call me back on this number. Thanks. Bye.” 

Becky turns around, phone still pressed to her ear. Billy’s fiddling with the TV remote with a smirk on his face. 

“Guy’s still hung up on you. How’s that?” 

She calls around the same time she’d run into him the day before, not wanting to interrupt him at work. 

“Can I see you again?” is the first thing he says. 

“Yes,” she says. _Yes_ , she mouths, eyes shut tight with want. 

He came prepared this time. They’re lying, limbs tangled together, in the bed of his truck in the field again, surrounded by what might be the softest duvet in the world. She wonders why they haven’t ever done this before. 

“I have dreams about you,” he blurts out, as she strokes circles into his bare chest. What did she do to deserve space in that beautiful head? 

“What kind of dreams?”

“All kinds. I’ll be at the Cotton Bowl and Vince is throwing me that pass that won us state and then all of a sudden the stadium’s flooding and you’re treading on the surface trying to pull me up. Or we’re on a beach but you can’t see me because it’s foggy. And sometimes it’s not bad. We’re just in a kitchen. You and me. And there’s… a baby.” 

_A baby_. They don’t talk about it. It’s something they decided a long time ago. As a means of survival. 

Becky doesn’t know what to say to this, so she kisses him instead. 

“Becky, I…” he starts saying, but stops. 

“What? What is it?”

“I’m in love with you. Still am. Always was.” His voice is steady as he holds her gaze; his face is clear still, even when she turns away, burned. “I know we… Fell off. But I never wanted that. And I hate myself every day for letting that happen. I know we’re different people now. But I just- I just want to know if… If you think we could do this. Again.” 

This is bad. This is bad, because the way he’s talking right now, she may never leave this place. This is bad, because if he keeps going, she’s never going to be able to say goodbye to him again. She doesn’t quite know what her plan is, but she knows that this was not part of it. 

“I don’t.”

He tenses under her touch, betrayed. 

“I can’t. I can’t make any promises to anyone right now. I need to get myself together.” 

“Becky, you don’t have to be… _together_ for me to want you. I don’t care that you’re figuring things out. I don’t care that you don’t know if you want to stay yet. I just want you to try. We gave up on something good. I don’t want to do that again. Listen, you’re out here with me for a reason. You said yes for a reason. It’s because you feel it, right?” 

And yes, she does feel it. She feels the sense of rightness, the sense that she has found the thing that her parents never did. But she is so scared. 

“What are the chances? What are the chances that I’m here in Texas now, and that you felt the need to come back for God-knows-why, that we ran into each other again? Are you really gonna pass that up?” 

He’s arguing it like it’s the closing argument for his defense trial and there’s a chance he’ll be put on death row. 

“Let’s talk about this later,” she suggests, and she can see the hurt behind his eyes. 

She climbs on top of him and puts her mouth on his. Because this—her hands in his hair, his eyelashes on her cheeks, his warmth inside of her—is real. This is now. 

They’ll talk about it later. 

(She’s sitting with her laptop open on the guest bed watching the cursor blink at her tauntingly in the search bar. 

“Translator jobs california” she types. Spanish Content Translator. Court Interpreter - Spanish. Why the hell didn’t she take Spanish instead? She sees a long list of courtroom jobs. The idea of sitting there listening to people argue makes her vaguely nauseous. 

“French degree jobs california” she amends. Financial Analyst? How does the ability to conjugate in the past participle make her qualified to analyze numbers? French Tutor, she reads. Okay, that’s something. She clicks on the opening. Looks at the pay. Alright, so Becky can be a French Tutor. She’d just have to live in a tent underneath Santa Monica pier. 

And then, looking over her shoulder, as if she’s doing something illegal, even though she’s the only person in the locked room, she types: “French degree jobs texas”.)

She doesn’t know how she ended up here. All she knows is that she got in Billy’s truck and started driving. Now, she stares at the rusting metal of the East Dillon High sign, wrapped in what looks like overdue tinsel. The windows are dark. The lawn is dry and bleak. 

Her senior year. With the football team gone, the general spirits of the student body were desolate. No more buzz and thrill of being behind a state championship team anymore. No more Booster Barbecues or pep rallies to punctuate the long and dreary school year. (No more gameday Luke in a suit and tie surprising her next to her locker, picking her up, and swinging her around—just the letters, that she used to dash obsessively to the mailbox for, that trickled in for the first few months until one day they stopped.) And with none of that to keep her busy, Becky figured that maybe she should try the school thing. 

She’d always had a good GPA. She’d taken regular classes up until then and was maybe one of the best students in them. Senior year she threw in some APs, and she definitely wasn’t one of the best anymore, (though AP Lit was surprisingly pleasant) but with the help of some study buddies and the homework club after school, she made it through with all As and a B in Calculus. 

God, Calculus. She thinks she deserves an award for that B. It’s the crowning achievement of her senior year. She read in their textbook how Isaac Newton invented Calculus, and she remembers thinking—screw you, Newton. None of it was real math. What happened to math being about numbers? All of a sudden there were arrows and weird squiggly S shapes and these things called matrices. 

Becky could’ve easily fallen through the cracks in that class. But she owes it all to her teacher. Ms. Sutton was her name. The woman was young and gorgeous, the kind of teacher the boys in her class would make disgusting jokes about and the girls would be split on either labeling a not-so-kind name or wanting to be her best friend. Becky was in the latter category. 

She’d been near failing Calculus and another AP class at the time when she’d gone into Ms. Sutton’s classroom to ask for help. They’d been talking for a while about some practice problems when Becky said it. 

“I don’t know, I guess school isn’t my thing.” 

“Who told you that?” Becky remembers her saying. 

“I don’t know. Me, I guess.” 

“It can be your thing.” 

“I’m a rally girl,” she’d said. “I’m a pageant girl. I live in a field. I really want to go to college, I thought I could change things. But I was wrong.” 

“School can be anyone’s thing, Becky. Just because you’re beautiful—and you are beautiful—doesn’t mean you can’t be a million other things, like smart, and studious, and good at math.” 

Ms. Sutton helped her with Calculus every day at lunch, conjuring up metaphors about race cars and bank accounts. And one day Becky really started to get it. She’d even help some of her classmates on the homework. It was actually kind of fun. In a month she’d raised her D to a B minus. 

But Ms. Sutton wasn’t just a math genius. She believed in Becky. She read her college essays, helped her polish them. She was the first person Becky told when she got into UCSB. 

Becky looks at the place, the white brick building where many dreams die, but sometimes, miraculously, take off. And she thanks Ms. Sutton, silently, for telling her that she was more than just a pretty girl. 

She finally visits Tim’s house. It’s the same as when they celebrated Christmas here three years ago (the only Christmas she went back to Dillon for)—dark brown panels, a deer head above the stone fireplace, the smell of beer and earthy cologne. 

He’s telling her about his hunting trip, which she honestly doesn’t care remotely about, when she notices the framed photo perched above the fireplace. It’s the only one. She’s seen it more than a couple of times, but she hasn’t _really_ seen it until now. They are at a lake—Tim, jaw softer and younger; a boy she recognizes as Jason Street; and Lyla, just as impossibly stunning as she was in person. Tim and Jason sit side-by-side in lawn chairs and Lyla’s propped up between them on the armrests. They’re gorgeous, all three of them. It’s the kind of moment that you think will last forever while you’re in it. 

“Jason and Lyla… What are they up to now?” 

“J’s some hotshot sports agent. Told me he just signed a guy with the Eagles.” He looks away. “Dunno… Dunno what she’s doing.” 

“…What happened to you two?” Becky knows she’s grasping at straws because there’s no way in hell Tim’s gonna talk about that. 

“What is that shit people say?” Nevermind, maybe he is. “If you love someone let them go?” 

He tries to say it like he thinks it’s kind of a load of horseshit, but from the far-off look in his eye, she knows he believes it at least a little. 

Becky knows the other half of the phrase though. 

_If they come back, it was meant to be._

She feels this weird electricity in her spine. Like she’s been stung. She rushes off to a window and opens it up for air. 

Beyond the frame of the small barn Tim is building is layers and layers of amber grass. The sky is a different color above Tim’s land than it is in the rest of the world. Jaw-droppingly purple, with smears of bright red. It’s beautiful. She thinks maybe she knows now why Tim says it— _Texas forever_. Because there is something real about this town, however screwed up and haunting and inevitable it may be. It’s real, and it’s constant, and it’s never going to go away. Tim, he is Dillon. He is everything good about Dillon—unflinching, uncaring about the what the world wants or expects from it, resolute in the face of challenge, in love with this savage sport through and through. 

And maybe Dillon was the place her father plunked her and her mother before he took off and erased himself from her life. Maybe it’s the place where her mother met and humored too many assholes that didn’t care about her. Maybe it’s the place where she almost became her mother—and lost something that she will never get back (her virginity, her innocence… _her baby_ ). 

But it’s also the place where she learned that you get to pick your family. That there are people who have nothing, no money or prestige, nothing but a half-way painted guest room and fridge full of beer, but give anyway, because they are good. 

It’s the place where she met a boy with devastating blue eyes and a heart bigger than his body. 

“You ever get over this view?” she asks. 

“Never,” Tim calls from the kitchen with a contented chuckle. 

Dillon’s not so bad. It’s really not so bad. 

She calls him from the Riggins’ landline phone when the family’s out for dinner. He picks up on the second ring. 

“I’m ready to talk about it,” she tells him. 

He lets out a breath. “Okay,” he says, tentatively. His voice is shaky. She wishes she could reach across the line and touch his face. And tell him that it’s good news, not bad. Oh well. He’ll find out soon enough. 

Becky takes the ring out of her wallet, runs it between her fingers. Places it on her thumb, where it barely just fits. 

No one has to know that Becky waits on the couch, elbows resting on her thighs, watching the window like a hawk for bright white headlights. No one has to know that the sound of the truck pulling in and clicking off sends her springing up from the couch. She opens the door before he even has the chance to knock.

Luke stands there, running a hand through his short hair, face grave. “Hi,” he says, in surprise.

Becky tugs him by the arm, wordlessly, to the backyard. She doesn’t know exactly what’s going to happen tonight but, whatever it is, she doesn’t want to bother Mindy and Billy with it if they come home early. 

She turns around to check that he’s still alive, and he is, just barely. He’s still looking at her too intently. He can’t _stop_ looking at her. She quirks her eyebrows at him. Serious doesn’t suit him well.

“What?” he says. His arms are crossed stiffly against his chest, closing him off to her. She’s going to have to do something about this. 

In one hefty motion, she manages to hurl the both of them into the Rigginses’ newly-done pool, which, though scattered with some dry leaves, is a big improvement from the mucky storage-dump of a pit it once was. Without Luke’s distracted brooding, she wouldn’t have been able to do it, so he has himself to blame. 

“Becky!” he’s screaming, as soon as they emerge from the huge splash they’ve created. “What the hell?!” 

She honest-to-god starts cackling. She treads to the edge of the pool, blinking water out of her eyes, and places an arm on either side of him. He’s trapped. The alarm in his eyes only makes her laugh more. 

“You looked like you were going to have a heart attack.” 

“So you thought _throwing me in the pool_ would help?” 

“Yeah,” Becky says, smiling wide, “I guess I did.” 

Luke takes a deep breath, shakes his head. Maybe she was a little misguided? But then, there’s a wave of chlorine-smelling icy water in her face, soaking her curls, and there’s Luke, behind it, eyes bright, hands at his sides. Laughing, finally. Bingo. 

“You little—”

There’s a lot more of that. There’s a lot of him grabbing her waist and trying to dunk her under and her telling him to stop because she’s wearing contacts, and by the end of it she’s desperate for warmth and his gray t-shirt looks permanently stuck to his _very_ toned body. 

Becky pulls him in, hooking her arms behind his neck. He’s so close she can see little flecks of gold in his eyes. 

“I’m going to get my teaching credential.” 

“Wow, Becky. That’s huge. That’s awesome!” His face is lit up. “It’s perfect,” he says, softer now, and with a tinge of something she can’t place.

“Teaching requirements in California”—his eyes flit at her mention of the state—“are the most strict in the whole country. You have to take, like, four different standardized tests. Like SATs all over again.” She laughs. But he doesn’t seem to think it’s funny at all. He’s looking down. 

“In Texas, I only have to take two.” 

He looks up, lips slightly parted in surprise. “What?” 

“You’re so different,” Becky digresses, voice just a whisper. “I feel like you’ve lived, like, five lifetimes since we were last together.” 

There’s this pained smile on his face that tells her that her assessment is more or less true. 

“But you know what’s crazy?” she continues. He moves a stray wet curl behind her ear. She smiles at him. “You’re not different at all. I still love you the way I did when I was seventeen. Well, maybe not the same way. Maybe never the same way. But just as much.”

She feels him living, breathing, underneath her touch. He’s real, and he’s here, and how could she have ever denied him anything?

“I don't care if it’s Dillon or San Antonio or Afghanistan or... _Antarctica_.”

He laughs.

“I am not walking away from you again.”

She reaches up, a hand on either side his face. He places his hands on top of hers, as if to assure himself she’s real. And she kisses him, for real this time. Not a kiss to shut him up, or shut her heart up, or to quell the lust in her gut. His lips are wet and slippery and they’re both clinging onto each other for dear life, because it’s _fucking freezing_ but Becky couldn’t care if she tried. 

“Oh, I know y’all are not screwing in my pool!” 

They both pull away, darting their heads to see a disapproving Mindy at the screen door. 

Luke, ever the gentleman, releases his arms from Becky’s waist (which sends her slipping backwards and nearly upside down into the water) like he’s been burned. “I would never, Mrs. R!” Becky’s cackling again. 

“Damn right.” Mindy shuts the door and leaves them to their business. 

“ _I would never, Mrs. R_ ,” Becky repeats, managing a pretty impressive Luke impression. 

“Shut up,” he says, but the deep tone of his voice and the arms pulling her back toward him say _come here_. 

“Are you sure you would never?” Becky poses, and she’s not entirely joking. 

Luke throws one final glance at the door, just to be sure. And then he pulls her in. 

**Author's Note:**

> i just finished fnl this quarantine and part of my mourning process includes writing fic, thus this was born!! people don't write this show enough, much less becky/luke, which is a crime because they are adorable. so i'm putting this out into the universe and i hope y'all will reciprocate pls i'm begging you. write more fnl fic, end this drought pls. 
> 
> title from you and i by one direction, of course.


End file.
